


a little bit more

by YourPalYourBuddy



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, NHL Player Adam "Holster" Birkholtz, and ransom doesnt go with him, holster moves bc he signs to a team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourPalYourBuddy/pseuds/YourPalYourBuddy
Summary: “I just wanted,” he says, “a perfect day. With you. Because it’s our last day together and our last day being here as undergrads and we’re kissing the ice tonight, and the weather’s supposed to be beautiful, and you’re moving tomorrow and Holtzy I just — I don’t want to be missing you already.”Holster wipes his eyes before he even realizes he’s crying. Behind him, Ransom sighs.“One more day where everything’s the same,” he says, feeling around blindly for Rans’ fingers. He feels Rans nod as he laces their fingers together. “Yeah. Yeah, Rans. I’d like that a lot.”__________________________Holsom after graduation and throughout the subsequent six months after Holster signs to an expansion team in Oregon, and realizes his feelings for Ransom too late. Holster's POV :) kinda angsty, but there's a happy ending :)Inspired by shitty-check-please-aus: "Holster moves to Oregon while Ransom stays on the east coast. The time difference makes it difficult to talk and one day they wake up and realize they aren’t best bros anymore."
Relationships: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi
Comments: 63
Kudos: 161





	1. this feeling's hard to ignore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pertainstothesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pertainstothesea/gifts).



> [Here's a link to that prompt!](https://shitty-check-please-aus.tumblr.com/post/190810665955/au-suggestion)

________________________

They’re together when Holster finally gets the call. 

“Hello?” he says, dropping his controller. The joystick gets sandwiched under a cushion and Toad veers sharply off Rainbow Road. Ransom pauses the game.

“Bro,” Rans says. There’s a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Is that—?”

Holster nods. Rans fist pumps, grinning.

He holds Rans’ gaze as Oregon’s GM talks in his ear, saying things like “exemplary defensive work” and “team-provided housing” and listing a salary that’s too large to understand right now, while he’s sitting on a rundown couch in a Haus that constantly has at least two or three leaky windows and a constant funky drain smell emanating from the upstairs bathtub. Objectively he knows the Haus isn’t that bad. But this money could buy three Hauses, minimum.

“So, Adam,” the GM says, and Holster’s grip tightens on his phone. “Are you onboard?”

Holster rests his free hand palm up on the cushion between them and Rans takes it just like he knew he would. It’s anchoring.

“Yeah,” Holster says. He clears his throat; Ransom squeezes his hand. “Yeah, I’m onboard.”

____________

Senior year moves pretty fast after that. He goes to classes, to practice, throws parties after good wins and throws movie nights after tough losses. He and Ransom spend their evenings bitching about homework and sketching out plays. Nights, he goes to bed humming. He falls asleep dreaming of his name in dark red on the back of a white-and-black Phantoms jersey. He’s gonna be in the  _ NHL. _ How long has he wanted this? 

He realizes that something’s off incrementally. It’s threaded through the way Ransom’s mouth tightens when Holster and Bitty talk about his meal plan. Shines bright in the way it hurts to celly with him — in his head there’s a countdown he doesn’t remember starting, listing all the opportunities they have left to share the ice like this. Burns in his mouth every time he starts to say, “We gotta get a place with lots of windows, really soak up the sun when we can.” It builds and builds until the air in their room feels thicker than Shitty’s first and most terrible concoction of tub juice.

On Tuesday three weeks after the call he says, “This sucks ass,” and Rans rolls onto his stomach. He’d been lying on the carpet on his back with his eyes closed, trying to memorize his organic chem notes. This, too. There’s only so many times Holster gets to see him like this. He hadn’t thought to miss it while they were going along.

“What does,” Ransom asks. The way he says it makes it clear he already knows.

“I don’t wanna miss you already.” Holster taps his pencil against his desk to distract from the knot in his stomach. “It’s not fair.”

“I’m right here,” Rans says, but he isn’t. There’s a crease between his eyebrows like the one he gets when he’s cooking with Bitty and is afraid to cut his fingers. Distancing. Holster doesn’t know whether to call him on it. 

“It’s good, right?” Rans goes on. “You get to do what you always wanted to do, that’s — that’s huge, bro.”

He sounds just so slightly like he’s trying to convince himself too. Like maybe if he says it enough times it’ll be okay.

“I guess, but I mean. You’re my  _ bro, _ you know? I don’t want to live that far away from you.”

Quietly, Ransom says, “I don’t wanna lose you either.”

“Then let’s not,” he says. He flips to the back of his notebook and says, impulsive, “Let’s make a schedule.”

“Of what?”

“Of, like.” Holster waves his hand around in an attempt to grab some free-floating words. “Good times to text. Important memories, like the time you scored one-handed, ass on the ice, after that Harvard asshat checked you.”

Rans smiles a little. “A collaborative kegster playlist. So we can still throw raging parties together.”

“Oh fuck yes.” Holster takes a few seconds to set it up so he doesn’t forget. “And, you know. A weekly call and shit.”

“You’re serious?” Rans says, sitting upright now. “That’d be so good, Holtzy.”

“Deadass.” The knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen. He tries his best to ignore it. “You’re my best friend. I’m not planning on losing you any time soon, okay? You’re stuck with me.”

“Okay,” Ransom says, and he moves his desk chair next to Holster’s and Holster is so relieved he considers crying for half a second. “Okay, yeah. Let’s make a schedule.”

____________

Talking about it eases some things. Ransom laughs more now and has started chirping him about his boiled eggs again. On the ice, their passes connect like the puck is a magnet and their sticks are magnetic. Holster can breathe in their room again, and spring feels like it’s finally here.

He hangs out with Lardo while she preps for her senior art show. He spends time mentoring or straight-up crushing the frogs in MarioKart, depending on the day. Rans goes full coral reef after a hard chem test, but Holster manages to ease him out of it like he always does. Privately, he starts making lists detailing what works and what doesn’t so he can give it to Lards when she and Rans and Shitty all move in together. Underneath it he writes his number and underlines it, which feels stupid after he does it, but makes him feel better. He’s still gonna have Ransom’s back, even if he’ll be 3,000 miles away.

The semester passes. Holster starts packing little things at a time with two weeks before graduation. The GM booked him a flight for five hours after graduation ends, so he doesn’t have a lot of time to prepare.

“You don’t need that,” Ransom says, three nights before the ceremony.

Holster holds the shirt flat against his chest. “Thought you wanted me to branch out into pink.”

Rans wrinkles his nose. “That’s not pink, that’s like two shades from orange. Looks like Esther Shapiro’s dye job sophomore year.”

Holster lobs the shirt at him and he catches it easily. Holster scowls. “The one nice thing about moving,” he says, “is no one can chirp me about that anymore.”

“I’ll tell ‘em when I visit,” Ransom says easily. He pulls out a blue shirt from Holster’s dresser like those words didn’t just set off a low frequency buzz throughout Holster’s whole body. “Blue’s your color. Pack that.”

“Do you mean that?”

Rans frowns. “You don’t have to pretend to be humble. You kill in blue.”

“No, I mean—” He catches the shirt and packs it, heart bumping in his chest. “—visiting. You’re gonna visit?”

“I was planning on it, yeah,” Rans says. He shifts his weight. “I thought — we were all thinking, you know. Home opener, at the latest. We already got tickets. Not Jack, he’s got a game, but everyone else. Is that—”

“Okay?” Holster says breathlessly. “I don’t deserve you guys.”

“‘Course you do,” he says, smiling. 

Like it’s that simple, easy as anything. Holster packs the shirt alongside the memory of this moment.  _ ‘Course you do, _ he’d said. Holster lets himself believe it.

____________

Lardo barrels into their room the next morning with a bullhorn she probably ‘accidentally’ stole from Shitty. “Wake the fuck up,” she says, and the horn amplifies her voice so much that Holster thinks it shook dust from the ceiling. He throws his pillow at her. She sidesteps easily, snags it, and throws it right back. “Nice try, motherfucker.”

“Why,” Ransom says, sounding pained.

Holster throws his pillow again. Lardo catches it and tosses it into the corner, glaring at him. “We’re having a party,” she says. “Tonight, c’mon.”

“Why,” Holster says.

Lardo is short but has never seemed  _ small. _ She usually has too much energy and too much of an aura of mild intimidation for that, even buried underneath her Art School Angst™ persona. Sometimes buoyed by her Art School Angst™ persona. She takes up her space and more in a way that says she demands to be here, even when just hanging out.

Today she isn’t. Today she just looks —  _ miserable, _ actually, even from here Holster thinks maybe she’d been crying a little bit ago. 

She says, “Because we’re growing up,” and wipes her nose on her sleeve. 

“Lards,” Holster says, feeling helpless. He holds his arms out. She walks into them immediately, and he tries to hug her back into herself. 

Above them, he hears Ransom shift and come down the creaking ladder. Seconds later he feels him pile onto their hug. Holster frees one arm so he can bundle Rans in, too. 

“Just want a distraction,” she mumbles. 

“Me too,” Rans says. His breath lands on Holster’s ear, and he shivers. “It’ll be good, I promise. We’ll make it good.”

____________

Their Haus is a mess of people crowding and pushing against every part of Holster’s body and it’s warm and sweaty, and he thinks if he went limp the pressure from the mob would keep him up, and it’s just. It’s so good is what it is. Not mindless, but easy. He lets himself get caught up in the rhythm of the woman in front of him until she asks him to go upstairs.

“Can’t,” he all but shouts. “Not that kind of party.” He smiles at her to try and let her down easy. She twists her lip. He shrugs. She rolls her eyes and elbows her way away from him.

A hand on his bicep. Ransom’s lips at his ear. “What was that?”

“Just grinding and she wanted more,” he shouts back. “Not what tonight’s about.”

Ransom says something about how, probably, Holster just couldn’t seal the deal as usual and Holster says some shit about how he pulls when he wants to pull, but he’s only half-interested in defending himself. Ransom is always stunning during these parties. Holster’s always known this on some level, so it’s not exactly a surprise when he pokes at this knowledge. His best friend is currently wearing an unbuttoned shirt and cutoffs and honestly, Holster’s seen him  _ naked _ in the locker room and their own room, but there’s something so — hot, really, just fucking hot, about the idea of Ransom purposefully showing himself off. 

The night goes on. At some point Shitty and Jack show up and the crowd gets even louder, though the odds are good that that noise was just Lards and Bitty. Ransom pulls him deeper into the crowd and they dance, shouting the words when they know them and even when they don’t because who fucking  _ cares, _ they’re seniors, they’re moving away. Holster keeps thinking about Ransom’s lips at his ear. He thinks about what it’d be like if Rans dressed up for him, if he knows just how much Holster’s world changed in those few seconds. He thinks about a lot of things. 

____________

Cleanup the next morning consists of Lardo and Shitty shouting through her bullhorn for everyone to “leave right now or help us clean, this is your final warning.” Holster peels himself off the couch in a grumpy haze, then scoops armfuls of Solo cups into a trashbag held by a yawning Bitty. Chowder and Jack have a mop and a bucket in the entrance way. Nursey and Dex are arguing over the best way to clean the tub juice out of the bathtub. Lardo is messing with the voice changing functions on the bullhorn until she finds something close to Darth Vader, and when she does, she plays Justin Bieber’s “Baby” through it until she, Holster, Shitty, and Bitty are having trouble keeping a straight face. 

It’d be perfect if Holster didn’t keep looking around, very aware of the fact that Rans isn’t downstairs. Or in the bathroom. Or in the front yard when he takes the trash out.

“Holtzy?”

His voice comes from up high; Holster, squinting, peers up at the roof. “Ransy?”

Ransom’s sitting on the reading room, arms around his knees. He smiles faintly. “Can you come up?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” Holster says. “Just — don’t move, okay?”

He’s full-on sprinting through the Haus, jumping over the bucket and a forgotten broom and dodging past Lardo and Bits, who are now making Darth Vader sing “Never Gonna Give You Up” and who he can tell are staring at him while he runs past. Lardo starts a sentence with “bro,” the way she does when she’s mildly concerned, but he just says “Tell you later” and practically flies up the steps.

At the landing he pauses, then ducks into a bathroom to commandeer some toothpaste. He hastily pats down his cowlick with some water.

Rans is leaning back on his hands when Holster ducks out of the window. Holster doesn’t look at him, moving slowly in case his new feelings show through on his face. They probably can’t be classified as “new,” though. He lets himself be a little in love with how Ransom’s looking up at the clouds, then shoves it down somewhere near his sternum.

“What’s up?” Holster asks, studying the way the trees across the street move in the wind.

Even without looking he can tell Rans is nervous. “I was just thinking,” he says, then pauses. “This is going to sound totally dumb.”

“Not dumber than Jack asking who Beyoncé is,” Holster says. He is very, very aware of how his pulse just spiked.

Ransom laughs a kind of breathy, uncertain laugh. “Just — don’t look at me when I ask you, okay?” 

Holster says, “Okay,” and turns so that his back is against Ransom’s shoulder. After a breath, he feels Rans rotate so their backs press together. It’s anchoring. They breathe together.

“I just wanted,” he says, “a perfect day. With you. Because it’s our last day together and our last day being here as undergrads and we’re kissing the ice tonight, and the weather’s supposed to be beautiful, and you’re moving tomorrow and Holtzy I just — I don’t want to be missing you already.”

Holster wipes his eyes before he even realizes he’s crying. Behind him, Ransom sighs.

“One more day where everything’s the same,” he says, feeling around blindly for Rans’ fingers. He feels Rans nod as he laces their fingers together. “Yeah. Yeah, Rans. I’d like that a lot.”

____________

It feels like getting ready for a date, except Holster’s paying even more attention to what he’s wearing. Even more attention to getting his hair looking just right. Not that he doesn’t always care about his appearance when taking people out, but this, here? Hearing Ransom sing in the shower for the first time since Holster signed? This is something more than that.

“Where’re we heading first?” Rans asks, coming into their room in just a towel, and Holster has to look away before he gets trapped in the single water droplet trailing down his collarbone and chest in the exact way he would if this was the beginning of a different moment.

Holster clears his throat. “I was thinking Jerry’s,” he says. “You like,  _ barely _ scratched the surface of what brunch can be when Bitty and Jack—”

“Okay,  _ look _ . I’m still not sorry about it,  _ I brought Jerry’s into the group—” _

“Yeah, and you failed to realize brunch is the fundamental meal—”

Ransom throws a shirt at him. It catches him in the face, and he grins before shaking it off.

____________

It’s everything they’ve talked about doing but never actually done. Rans had an Excel sheet of all their “yeah that’d be dope, we should totally do that at some point” things, because of course he did, and Holster has to remind himself that however he feels about it has to be firmly in best friend territory. He’s unsuccessful, but he feels better for trying.

Brunch at Jerry’s and Ransom across from him in one of the prettiest floral button-ups he’s ever seen, laughing so much over something nonsensical that they both end up choking on their mimosas. Laser tag behind the Regular Stop ‘N Shop, Holster and Rans against a whole horde of middle schoolers, hunkered down behind a random oversized block while strategizing how to take them all down. Being taken down anyway. The art museum, where he snaps a quick shot of Rans with an intricate, spiraling mirror as a backdrop. Lake Quad, where Rans takes a picture of Holster posing on Wellie, and then a series of pictures of Holster running away from a goose that nested right next to Wellie. 

They’re looking at these photos when someone comes up and offers to take a picture of them together.

“You’re so sweet together,” she says, “and the light is so nice right here, golden hour and all that.”

Holster doesn’t know how to respond to that without giving everything away, so he just smiles. And even though they’ve done this millions of times — Holster’s arm over Ransom’s shoulder because he’s slightly taller, Ransom’s fingers lightly tickling his waist to loosen him up because he always gets too stiff during pictures, being so close Holster can smell the cocoa butter he always uses right after a shower — it’s not the same. Something fundamental is different now when Holster touches him. He can’t tell whether or not he wants Ransom to say something about it. It’s building to a crescendo in his throat.

“Thanks,” Ransom tells the woman when she hands his phone back. She beams at them before walking away. Ransom puts his phone in his pocket before bumping Holster, saying, “Okay, Faber? I think Bits is bringing food.”

And Holster knows they’re kissing the ice in thirty minutes and graduation is tomorrow and his flight is in less than thirty hours. He knows the whole plan of today was to keep everything normal, one last day of things being the same. He says it anyway.

He says, “Rans,” and Ransom turns. He says, “There’s one more thing I’ve been thinking about doing, if that’s okay?”

“What is it?”

“You can say no,” Holster says in a rush, “because I know it’s not really — we wouldn’t be keeping things the same, if we do this.”

Ransom’s face softens. “Holtzy,” he whispers. He says his name like he knows what Holster is trying to say and is trying to let him down gently. “Can we just. I need this to be a good memory. For both of us. And then, later — after center ice, later — if you still feel the way you do, we can talk about it, okay?”

“Okay,” Holster whispers. Rans bites his lip. “No, seriously. It’s okay, that’s probably the smart thing to do.”

Rans studies his face as if he’s trying to memorize it. “Is it actually?”

“Of course,” Holster says, forcing his voice to sound relaxed. “You’re my best friend, Rans. Of course it’s okay. Let’s go see what Bitty made, Jack and I have money on if he made baked beans.”

The air between them is different now, charged with some sort of current that Holster doesn’t understand. They head off toward Faber with whatever this is carried between them like a glass ballon.

Ransom says, “You’re gonna lose that one, Bitty likes making whatever Jack likes, we’re not the favorites anymore,” and it’s not normal, but he’s trying, and Holster sort of loves him for it. They go back and forth in this vein until they get to the rink.

“I told you,” Ransom says when they see the baked beans. 

“I should’ve listened to you,” Holster says, and he thinks this time they both hear the double meaning.

____________

They kiss the ice. Shitty teases them like he’s going to tell them his real name and then doesn’t, to no one’s surprise but everyone’s outrage. Holster tells himself it is enough to be here with his friends in this place at this time. That this isn’t the end of them, even though it feels like it is. They tell stories until Bitty starts yawning, which makes Lardo yawn, which sets off a chain reaction all the way around the circle. The walk to the Haus is silent except for more escaping yawns.

“Just thought of something,” Holster says when they reach the porch. “If Shitty and Lardo are sharing a room, and so are Bitty and Jack, do we fine all four of you individually or—”

Lardo and Shitty go bright pink and sputter in response. Bitty, sleepy, says, “If I wasn’t so tired, Adam Birkholtz, I’d have something withering to say in response to that. So if I were you I’d be letting this drop before morning.”

“Oh, scary Bitty,” Ransom says, smirking. 

Jack says, “He means it, he can be very shitty in the morning,” and he just smiles when they all yell “FINE.”

____________

It isn’t hard to tell what Ransom’s gonna say. Holster sits on his bed, holding his pillow while Ransom continues getting ready for bed. He’s moving so slow that Holster can tell he doesn’t want to say it. He always moves slower when he thinks he’s going to hurt Holster’s feelings by saying something that needs to be said.

“It’s okay,” Holster says quietly, once Ransom has moisturized his face twice. “It won’t break me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I just,” Ransom says. Holster both wants and doesn’t want him to turn around. Seeing it in his back hurts enough; seeing it in his face might be devastating. “This can’t be spur of the moment for me. I can’t kiss you like this and then lose you like that tomorrow. You mean too much to me for that.”

Everything he’s saying makes perfect sense. Holster wants to tell him he’s wrong, that he won’t kiss him and leave him the way he’s saying, but he doesn’t have much of a choice right now. There’s a plane ticket with his name on it departing from Providence so quickly after graduation. Their entire room is full of boxes that he’s taking to his new life, or that Ransom is taking to his. He can’t lie to Ransom like that.

“I understand,” he says. It’s all he can say. 

Ransom opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. Eventually he just sighs and shrugs a little helplessly before climbing up to his bunk. Holster listens to the familiar noises of him settling in for the night. It’s finally hitting him now, how long it’ll be before he hears those sounds again.

“Hey, Rans?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for today,” Holster says. “I’m sorry that I kinda, you know. Ruined your last perfect day here.”

For a split second he doesn’t think Ransom’s going to respond. “You didn’t,” Ransom says softly. “If things were — you didn’t, Holster. Thanks for being there today.” 

Holster thinks he was about to say  _ if things were different. _ Holster thinks, maybe, that’s the cruelest thing to say. He understands why. It doesn’t make the hurt any less.

____________

In the morning, they dance around each other like nothing’s changed but knowing everything has. They still get ready for graduation together. Rans still chirps him for singing so loudly, Holster makes fun of how Ransom taped his boxes shut, they both smile too brightly in the pictures they take with Lardo. Lardo narrows her eyes at Holster afterward.

“What,” he says.

“You two okay?” she asks.

“Of course.”

She just hums doubtfully in response. Holster tenses.

His parents meet him at the Haus and there’s another round of photos, except this time it’s just the Birkholtzs. Holster does his best to pay attention to Jack and his fancy camera instead of glancing at Ransom and his family, but it’s difficult. It feels like they’re already unraveling. 

They graduate. Holster loses Ransom in the mob and decides to go back to the Haus alone, waving off his parents by saying he needs one last look around campus before the flight. 

Holster’s loading the last of his things into the trunk of his parents’ car when someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” Ransom says. He is at once the first and last person Holster wants to see.

Holster says, “Hey,” and Ransom’s face does something strange. It almost looks like he’s going to cry if he lets himself. Holster can’t let that happen. “What’s up?”

Instead of answering, Ransom kisses him on the cheek. Holster’s too stunned to react. Ransom says, “Let me know when you land, okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, because that’s all he can say. He shakes himself slightly. “Rans, are we — we’re good, right?”

“We’re Holster and Ransom,” Rans says, smiling. “‘Course we are. PB and J wants what we have.”

Holster pulls him in close for a hug. They’re both crying a little; after all these years, he knows what Rans sounds like when he’s trying not to cry. He rubs his back until the sounds stop, feeling lighter. 

____________

He lets himself wonder, as they pull apart and get into their separate cars to momentarily go separate ways, what it would’ve been like if things were different. If he’d realized how he felt earlier than literally two nights before moving across the country. Ransom’s lips were soft on his cheek. He lets himself imagine what it would’ve been like if he’d asked to kiss him when they got the A, or when they won their first game together, or after that first night they lived together in the attic. It’s easy to find moments when you look back. 

“You have everything, right?” his mom asks before he goes through security. 

Holster nods, feeling like it’s a lie even as he does. There’s a Ransom-sized hole next to him that he can’t fill up. 

“They’re sending someone to meet me at the airport,” he says, in response to another question. And then: “Yeah, I already have a place, I’m rooming with one of the vets.” And then: “I’ll be okay, Mom,” and a smile that manages to convince both his parents. 

They hug him goodbye. He waves before going all the way through security, turning back one last time to see them with their arms around each other. He tells himself he wasn’t expecting a grand, romantic comedy moment with Ransom running into the airport telling him to stop. He wasn’t. 

He goes through security. An hour and a half later, he gets on the plane. He closes his eyes as soon as they’re airborne.

________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact the "perfect day" thing was inspired by How I Met Your Mother. big props to all y'all who picked up on that


	2. can you blame me for wanting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how NHL preseason works or how long it goes, pls just ;) go with me on this ;) pls ;)

________________________

Holster steps into the arrivals terminal and is greeted by a driver named Paul and the actual captain of the Phantoms, Jordan Berger, who’s even taller in person than Holster expected. Privately he thinks Shitty’s flow at its peak was more impressive than Jordan’s. He also thinks Jack’s quiet gravitas held a stronger presence before reminding himself that he needs to get his shit together. He’s in the NHL. He needs to be on his game.

“Hey,” Jordan says, “I’m Jordan Berger. The boys call me Bergy.”

Holster says, “Adam Birkholtz, my last team called me Holster,” and shakes his hand. 

Bergy helps him with his bags at baggage claim while Paul pulls the car around, peppering him with questions about college and what he studied, and whether he’s ever been to Oregon before. Holster decides Bergy can’t be all that bad when he quotes _Cheers_ at him and he finishes the scene without missing a beat. Anyone who can do that is alright as far as Holster’s concerned. 

“You’re staying with us at Phantom Alley,” Bergy says once they’re in the car. “Not sure how much the GM’s said to you, but the whole team lives there. The team’s a buncha young guys, so try not to party too loud, okay? Last thing we need is for the place to get shut down.”

“Nah, I have a quiet kegster playlist,” Holster says. Bergy frowns. “Party mix, I mean. At Samwell we called them kegsters.”

“Oh, that’s pretty cool,” Bergy says, before changing the subject to how many solid food places are nearby. 

He says “solid” a lot. The gear Holster’s going to get is solid. The home crowd is solid. There’s a lot of pretty waitresses at the bar they go to after games, and the whole vibe is solid. It makes Holster miss saying ‘swawesome.

“Who am I living with?” he asks when they get to Phantom Alley. His phone buzzes but he ignores it.

Bergy looks surprised. “Oh, with me,” he says. “Sorry, thought I made that more obvious. Keller wants us to be lineys, Dovey’s out with a knee injury and we both really liked your tape.”

He says, “Sweet.” He doesn’t say _Rans is my liney_ because he’s a professional hockey player, and that’d be childish. He says, “What’re the best jogging routes nearby?”

Bergy tells him the ins and outs of the neighborhood while they hike Holster’s gear up the stairs. He didn’t bring too much because of the quick turnaround time, so his parents are sending some of his things over the next few days. It takes them a single trip to get all his shit into the place.

“Here it is,” Bergy says dramatically, pushing the door open. He steps back so Holster can walk through first. 

It’s a very clean place, which Holster wasn’t expecting. This place could make the Haus look like a dump. He’s just walked into a living room separated from the kitchen by a long half-wall with yards of counter space. He mentally composes a somewhat braggy text to Bitty over the oven and fridge. The whole place is a gleaming, shimmering white except for the accents, which are dark red and black like the jerseys hung up around the room. 

One of the jerseys has BIRKHOLTZ stitched across the back in dark red. A subtle thrill goes up his back when he sees it.

“Yeah, go on,” Bergy says. He sounds amused. 

Holster drops his bags on the countertop and crosses the room in ten strides. He hovers his hands over the jersey first, taking it in. It’s even more beautiful than he imagined. He is momentarily afraid to touch it in case he ruins it. Seems to be happening a lot lately.

“Holy shit,” he says. 

Bergy laughs, but kindly. “Welcome to the NHL, Holster.”

____________

He moves his things in slowly the rest of the day, taking his time. Absorbing the process. Bergy moves some of his things aside to make room for Holster’s and doesn’t chirp him about the giant Wellie poster he puts up in the living room next to Bergy’s Seattle Seahawks banner. His room is already furnished with a bed and dresser and nightstand, which is great. His parents were worrying about where to find good mattresses, even though Holster told them he could sleep on the couch the first night and figure it out from there. 

Which reminds him. He pulls out his phone, intent to text his parents about both the plane landing and the bed situation, when he sees Ransom’s name on his screen.

The text says: _hey did you make it okay? I wanna see a pic of your new digs_

That’s all he sent. They are, Holster reminds himself, just friends. They have a schedule to keep.

He sends back _made it! unpacking now_ and sends a short video of his room. Ransom responds almost immediately with a starstruck emoji. Holster snorts a laugh and is about to set his phone down when it buzzes again.

_don’t go forgetting about us now that you’re famous :)_

_hardly famous,_ he sends back. _and I’d never forget you guys_

It’s the safest way to say it. Holster puts his phone on Do Not Disturb and finishes putting his clothes away.

____________

It’s strange sleeping in a place without someone else breathing nearby. Or at least audibly breathing nearby. 

If Holster wants to, he can stick his arm straight into the air without hitting anything. No bunkbed frame, no mattress springs, just air circulated by the ceiling fan. If he wants to, he can starfish on the bed and no part of his body will be hanging off. He can leave his clothes lying out without bothering anyone, if he wants to. He could bring someone home and not have to ask to have the room.

He frowns at that part, turning over. Rans could also do all of that. He shoves his pillow into a more comfortable position under his chin.

____________

The team stops by in increments over the course of the next week or so and Ransom starts texting less and less, but it’s hard to keep track of that when he’s trying to learn at least twenty-seven names. Holster eats enough buffalo dip to fill a small hot tub and talks enough shit to fill a septic tank, because apparently those are two things the Phantoms do often and do extremely well. He casually mentions Bitty to the group and after ignoring the single comment of “Isn’t that Zimmermann’s boyfriend?” he’s on the phone, apologizing profusely but asking if there’s any chance Bitty could send over some jams, maybe, if he has time.

“I swear you NHL players are gonna be the death of me,” Bitty says. “Sure, honey. Just text me what flavors you boys want.”

Holster thanks him and pauses. “Hey, Bitty?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you heard at all from Rans lately?”

“Um — now and then, sure. He’s back home now, I think he was traveling with his family. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Holster kind of wishes he was talking on a wall phone or something. His fingers are dying to play with a hanging cord of some sort.

A loud burst of laughter all but busts down his bedroom door. “I should probably go. Thanks, Bits. I owe you one.”

“Get a goal for me,” Bitty says. Holster isn’t at all surprised when he says, “Are you and Rans okay?”

“I tried to kiss him before graduation,” Holster says bluntly. “He didn’t want to.”

All Bitty says is “Ah.”

“Yup.” Another cheer from the living room. “I gotta go before they fine me for not participating in team bonding.”

He hangs up after they exchange goodbyes. He lets himself rest his head on the doorframe before going back out.

They surprise him with a pop quiz over all of their names and he butchers them so badly he inspires three new nicknames for three poor guys, so it’s not a total loss.

____________

“You up?” Bergy calls one morning. Holster grumbles something unintelligible in response. “Good. We’re going to the pool today.”

Holster rolls out of bed and pulls on swim trunks and a shirt, yawning, and when he comes into the kitchen Bergy’s holding out an egg sandwich. Holster takes it gratefully. And then eats it reluctantly, after realizing it surpasses Shitty’s famous egg sandwiches. And then reminds himself he’s not here to compare both of his teams.

“Who’re we going with?” he asks. It seems like the last two weeks have been a very intense round of speed friending, trying to build chemistry in the off season before the real work begins. He has a calendar on his wall counting down the days before preseason training.

“Just us,” Bergy says. “We’re meeting Dovey there, it’s his physical therapy day.”

Holster spends the walk to the pool trying to figure out if he’s supposed to feel weird about this. He’s meeting the guy whose place he’s taking with very little time to prepare; what if Dovey resents him? What if Dovey’s secretly relieved, because now he doesn’t have to play — that’d be the worse option, because that’d mean the team’s on-ice chemistry sucks even as much as their parties are supposedly legendary. 

He isn’t prepared for Dovey to smile broadly and say, “There he is. Heard you got Madster and Kenzie confused the other day,” before clasping his hand. 

“Okay look,” Holster says, “they’re identical fucking twins.” 

“Kenzie’s got the earring,” Dovey offers, but he’s still laughing. 

Holster would be offended if he didn’t know Dovey was gently welcoming him into their dynamic. He and Bergy help Dovey down the pool steps and Dovey explains that his trainer is running late, so when she gets there they can go fuck themselves or something, but for right now he needs them for stability. 

Bergy blushes a little when Dovey mentions his trainer. Holster and Dovey glance at each other, and Dovey winks as if to say _watch this._

“Yeah, Bergy, I guess you could stick around if you want,” Dovey says. The back of Bergy’s neck goes even pinker. “He’s always interested in what Jenna’s doing for my knee. Just looking for physical therapy tips, huh, Bergy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bergy says. It’s undercut by the fact that his ears are now scarlet.

Holster says, “So when’s the wedding?” 

Bergy splashes him before he finishes talking. Dovey gives him a private thumbs up. Both of their gestures say _welcome aboard._ And for the first time since he landed in Oregon — even after getting his room set up, and nicknaming three of his teammates, and all the buffalo dip; the first time since leaving Ransom behind — Holster feels like he belongs.

____________

“Rans!”

“Holster? Holtzy!”

“Hey,” Holster says, grinning. He hadn’t forgotten so much as not allowed himself to remember how good it feels to hear Ransom’s voice, just in case he never heard it again. 

“Bro,” Ransom says, sounding like he’s smiling, “tell me everything.”

So Holster does, unwrapping the whole story as best he can while spread out on the couch. He tells him about the quiet kegsters they’ll be throwing — “What’s the fun in being _quiet?”_ “Bro I know, tell me about it.” — and the running route he’s figured out, how Bitty’s supplying their team with a treasure chest full of jam as soon as possible, and how he still hasn’t tried on his jersey just in case doing so means popping the bubble.

“Nah, don’t do that to yourself,” Rans says. “You’re there because you’re supposed to be, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers. 

In return Ransom tells him about living with Lardo and Shitty, and how they alternated who had to do the morning walk of shame before Rans reminded them they could just room together and rent out the other room, which they’re now doing. Ransom promises he’s eating and sleeping fine and is doing okay at the company they were both gonna work at before Holster signed, and how he has a work best friend who’s forty-five and named Cheryl.

“You’ll always be my number one,” Rans says easily, “but I think you’d like her. Her cherry scones are like. Better than Bitty’s.”

“Don’t let Bitty hear you say that or he’ll find a way to make you run laps.”

He can almost see Ransom’s pretend shiver. “Oh, right. Scary captain Bitty is at large.”

It’s _easy,_ talking to him. Holster can’t get over how easy it is to be Ransom and Holster over the phone, even a month later. It feels like whatever awkwardness they left between them faded away over the past few weeks.

“So everything’s going good over there?” Ransom asks after an hour. 

“Yeah, it’s good so far. I guess we’ll see what happens when the season starts, but far it’s good. How’s it on the East Coast?”

“About the same.” The resulting pause is very full, like Ransom’s deciding what to say next. “I miss you a lot.”

This hits some lump in Holster’s throat. “I miss you too, Rans,” he says quietly. “I wish you were here.”

They steer to lighter topics now. Jack on the cover of _Pride_ magazine. Nursey’s poem published online. That picture Chowder and Farmer put up on Instagram, the odds of them getting engaged before they graduate. They don’t talk about their almost-kiss.

Before they hang up, Holster reminds Ransom about the Excel spreadsheet they made of the best days and times for phone calls. Ransom shares it with him after they say goodbyes.

_Ransom & Holster’s Ultimate Best Friend Cheat Sheet, _ the subject line says. Holster smiles at it. He sets reminders in his phone.

____________

Then preseason hits.

NHL preseason training is a whole different beast entirely than Samwell, even in the years Jack was his captain. It’s weights every other day. It’s drills on the ice for hours on end. It’s his muscles burning even though he’s in shape and keeping up with his meal plan and sleeping well. It’s Coach Keller making them do sprints again and again until he makes Herb Brooks seem kind by comparison. It’s falling asleep by running through plays in his head until he starts dreaming about protecting the zone. 

It absorbs all of Holster’s time and energy in a way that nothing else ever has. He’d let his friends and famil know ahead of time when it started, but eventually the unreturned texts and calls and Snapchats stress him out to the point that he ignores everyone. In the beginning he’d made an effort to keep up with Ransom individually and the whole SMH text chain, but now? Now when his reminders go off, he turns them off completely. Too much of himself is on the ice right now to reply quickly. He tries his best to get back to everyone within the week instead of within the day, because the latter is just impossible.

He knows it’s bad when Ransom stops texting first. They had a conversation sometime freshman year that it wouldn’t matter what was going on, there was no loss of pride in double texting. But now Rans isn’t starting conversations, and Holster can’t blame him; the last thing they were seriously talking about was some Netflix show, and Holster left him on read even after Ransom asked him a question. 

It’s difficult recognizing things are going to shit without having the mental energy to fix them, especially now that things are going so well with his team. He knows most of their names now, and there’s something to be said for endless sprints to really get a group of guys to bond. 

He responds later and later to all of his messages. Ransom replies even later. There’s one day in mid August when they have a complete back and forth conversation, but that’s about socks so it barely counts. 

He spends his free time with Dovey teasing Bergy about Jenna while playing MarioKart, which turns into a biweekly tourney amongst all the guys who think they can knock Holster off his three year win streak. He learns new ways to tell Madster and Kenzie apart other than the earring. He finally apologizes to the guys he misnamed, because now even social media is calling them Crash, Washer, and Pipster. Carter shows him how to make buffalo dip. Jonesy takes him out on the town with a few other guys. He’s settled, well and truly.

One morning he wakes up to the SMH group chat popping off, and nothing from Ransom. A week or so later he wakes up to the same thing, except this time it doesn’t hurt not seeing Ransom’s name on his screen.

A few days after that, he realizes they’re probably not best friends anymore.

____________

Holster’s first game on Phantom ice is a preseason matchup against the Sharks, so even if he has accidentally burned all his Samwell bridges, he knows at least Chowder will be watching. He wakes up to a flurry of “good luck tonight” texts from the group chat and a single party face emoji from Ransom, also in the group chat. He sends back _thanks boys <3 _ and they all heart it over the course of the day. Ransom hearts it but doesn’t send anything else. He does his best not to focus on it.

The announcer calls the starting lineup and Holster waits for his name, anxious that he’ll trip over his skates as he comes out the tunnel. Samwell never spent the money on extravagant shenanigans like this, no matter how hard he and Shitty lobbied the sports council. He doesn’t trip.

Warming up is surreal. It feels like — they feel like a machine, almost. Passes connect as easy as breathing. His skates were sharpened two days ago and he’s in total control for every cut on the ice. He isn’t staring around at the lights like some of the other rookies. His stick is an extension of himself. It feels kind of perfect, being out here. 

“You ready?” Bergy asks when they line up for the anthem. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Holster says, then shakes his head. “Yes. Fucking solid.”

____________

The other big difference between NHL hockey and Samwell? The fucking _speed._ The game goes by in a blur that Holster keeps track of, barely, by muscle memory alone. His body gets him to where he’s supposed to be before he even tells his feet to move.

Keller calls lines even faster than Hall ever did and when Holster and Bergy and Jonesy are on the ice together? It’s electric. It’s better than electric, actually. It feels like renting out the whole Spring C stage and belting out Adele. It feels like when he first got signed. 

Holster sets up a one-timer to Jonesy down at the circles and Jonesy slaps it in and no, he thinks. It’s indescribable. Better than everything he’s ever felt before.

It feels like, probably, what kissing Ransom would feel like.

____________

“Don’t worry Birky, we got an Uber scheduled so we don’t miss out on pracky tomorrow,” Dovey says as they push through the crowd outside Nick’s. One of the strangest NHL perks is that they can often cut the line outside bars. Holster definitely won’t miss that.

He says, “Birky?” 

“New nickname for the new rookie,” Kenzie hollers, clapping him on the shoulders. “Some mighty fine shooting tonight boys. Let’s get _fucking_ wild.” 

So they do. After four shots Holster’s singing his heart out with his arms around Dovey, who’s got his phone out and is recording the mayhem around them. Holster smiles at it when he points the lens at him. It doesn’t feel forced.

“Send that to me,” he says. “Gotta send it to my boys.”

Six shots, and things get a little tipsy. He gets a little louder to compensate for being embarrassed over how easy it is to get him drunk now. If college Holster could see him, he’d be chirping him halfway to death and then back again. Bergy looks like he’s in the same boat from over here. Dovey keeps needling him about texting Jenna while Jonesy loudly explains why that’s a horrible idea, enlisting Holster’s support. He privately agrees with both of them, but he tells him to text her when he’s sober. 

Eight shots. Then ten. Holster leans on Madster while he tries to wheel a waitress with gorgeous black hair. 

“You have pretty eyes,” Holster says, and the waitress smiles at him. Madster pouts exaggeratedly before guiding Holster to a seat at the bar and joining Crash and Carter.

“Think I should switch you all over to water, huh,” she says. “Getting a little sloppy.”

Holster feigns offence. “Us, sloppy?” he says, pressing his hand to his heart in his best impression of Bitty. “Never.”

“Oh, so you’re not with the Phantoms?” she says. She waves her hand at his teammates, some of whom are now singing at the karaoke machine. “You weren’t on our TV a few hours ago with a beauty of an assist to win it? That wasn’t you, Adam Birkholtz?”

There is more than a little interest swirling around his stomach. He casually leans onto the bar. “Seems unfair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” he says. 

“It’s Charlotte,” she says, then winks and taps her nametag. She hands him a cup of water. “I think it’s water time for sure.”

Impulsively Holster says, “Do you wanna have a drink with me,” and when she raises her eyebrows he amends, “Water, I mean. Have a drink of water with me?”

“I’m not sure that that’s such a great idea,” she says. 

“Why not?”

“For starters, your captain’s calling for you guys to leave,” Charlotte says.

She’s right; Bergy waves at him from across the bar. He looks as if he’s been waving for awhile now. Holster holds up a finger to say _one second_ and turns back to her. 

“For finishers?” he asks.

Charlotte says, “Your team comes here all the time,” and Holster nods.

“Don’t want to make it awkward,” he says.

“And you’re drunk.”

“I could be.”

“Birky!” Bergy yells. “Get your ass over here.”

Holster shrugs. “Guess I gotta go. Thanks for the water.”

“You didn’t even have any,” she says, laughing. 

“I promise I’ll have some when I get home,” he says. “Do you trust me?”

Charlotte pulls out a pen and a napkin, shaking her head. She’s smiling though. “Not even slightly,” she says, writing down some numbers. “Text me when you’re sober and hydrated.”

“Okay,” Holster says, smiling at her. She tucks her number in his jacket pocket and wiggles her fingers in a wave as he heads toward the door. Dovey whistles at him softly.

Bergy musses his hair as soon as they step outside. “Birky, you killer,” he says. “Rookie’s got some goddamn _wheels_ boys.”

The chirps flow freely in the Uber home. Holster doesn’t say anything other than to chirp Madster, who apparently, struck out seven times.

“Good thing you’re not a baseball player,” he says, and the resulting storm of lighthearted insults doesn’t ebb until they get back to the Alley. 

____________

He texts Charlotte a picture of himself drinking a glass of water with the caption _captain’s orders_ before showering the night off of him. When he leaves the bathroom, he sees that she’s texted back. 

It says: _a man of your word, huh? that’s hot._

He sends, _I’m a man of many talents._

_haha. I’d ask about them but you probably have an early practice tomorrow_

He frowns, checking the time. Shit. _you’d be correct. we can rain check it?_

She says, _sounds good ;)_

He smiles as he falls asleep.

____________

With Dovey and Bergy’s blessings, he takes Charlotte to an Italian restaurant that’s supposed to be just the right ratio of fancy to casual to be a perfect first date spot. He picks her up at seven in Jonesy’s car, remembering to go up to the door to knock and mentally planning how to open the car door.

“Hi,” Charlotte says, closing the front door behind her. 

Every word Holster’s ever known falls out of his head. She’s wearing a casual deep green dress that shimmers in the light and her hair’s all done up and her lipstick? Fuck. She looks damn good. 

A little sliver in the back of his mind whispers something like _she’s not Ransom._ He shoves it down.

“Hey,” he says. There’s an awkward moment where they go in for a hug but then don’t but then do it anyway, laughing a little, and even this is damn good.

They chat idly in the car. He learns she’s from California originally and grew up near Chowder, though she doesn’t know him or Caitlin — “California’s _massive,_ the odds weren’t high. No it’s okay! You’re good.” — but went to school for English in Texas before moving to Oregon a few years ago and working at Nick’s. She tells him about her family, how she’s the oldest of three and but the second to move away — “Younger sister, Ashlyn, met a Frenchman on a study abroad excursion and never really left. They’re getting married next spring.” — and how her roommates were teasing her about going on a date with an NHL player.

“They’re pretty jaded about some of you guys,” she says carefully over calamari. “They dated some guys back in California, they were telling me horror stories.”

“Yeah?” Holster takes a sip of water, thinking. “Well. I’m not most NHL players.” He freezes. “Holy shit that sounded arrogant as hell, ignore that.”

Charlotte smiles at him, saying, “You’re right. As far as I can tell, anyway. 

Their conversation flows easily enough. There are a few stops and starts, notably when she asks if he has someone he’s left behind at home; does he? Surely not. Right? She takes pity on him after his fifth false start.

“It’s complicated,” she says gently. “Can I ask about it?”

“You can.” He sighs. “It shouldn’t be, is the thing. He’s my best friend and I realized I was in love with him in May, but we were graduating and I was moving and he — it was too spur of the moment. He’s a planner. I didn’t give him enough time.”

Holster studies her carefully as he talks. Aside from a slight widening of her eyes when he says “he,” her face doesn’t change. 

“That was really brave of you to share,” she says eventually. “Not a lot of players would have admitted that.”

“I’m trying to follow in Jack’s footsteps,” he says, and now she gasps.

“Oh my god. Do you know his boyfriend?”

Holster smiles, imagining how quietly pleased Jack would be by this turn of events. He tells her about their love story until she holds up a hand.

“That’s like what yours would’ve been,” she says, then covers her mouth. “I’m so sorry, was that—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts. It mostly is. It’s easier to breathe around. “It wasn’t our moment.”

____________

He drives her home around ten, and at the door she murmurs, “Wanna show me some of those talents we were talking about?”

There’s no reason he should say no. It was a great night, and she’s beautiful, and Holster _can_ seal the deal when he wants to, fuck you Ransom, and yet. 

“I don’t think I can tonight,” he says quietly. 

Charlotte tilts her head like she’s considering all of him in his entirety. “Are you still in love with him?” she asks.

She doesn’t sound like she’s judging him. She almost sounds sorry for him, like she’s been in a similar spot before. Maybe she has.

“If you knew him,” he says, “you’d get it.”

“I get it.” She leans in and stretches up just enough to kiss him on the cheek before pulling back.

Holster says, “Thanks for understanding,” and she pats him right where she kissed him.

“Don’t avoid me at Nick’s, okay? I wanna hear the rest of this story. I don’t think this is the end of it.”

________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ordinarily I'd say something like "ooo what's gonna happen" but ordinarily I don't know myself, & this time I finished it first, so go check out the next chapter :)


	3. a little more of you

________________________

Preseason continues. Holster starts running into Jenna in the kitchen a few days after his date with Charlotte, and everytime he does he texts the Phantoms group chat into a frenzy that distracts him from Ransom. In his fifth game, Holster scores off assists from Bergy and Pipster and the celly sweeps him off his feet.

After the game, his phone lights up with texts apiece from Jack, Bitty, Shitty, and Lardo and at least thirty individual texts in the SMH group chat. He grins as he reads them until he realizes none are from Ransom.

“What’s up, Buttercup?” Bergy asks, sitting down on the bench next to him. He starts untying his laces.

Holster hadn’t realized he’d been frowning for so long. “It’s nothing.”

Bergy tosses a spare sock at him. “Bullshit,” he says. “No one looks at their phone like when it’s nothing.”

“Was it Charlotte?” Madster asks.

Jonesy says, “Yeah, I bet you’d love that Madster, wouldn’t you,” and his teammates snicker. 

Holster smiles slightly. “It’s not Charlotte.”

“But it’s  _ someone,” _ Dovey says. “There’s always someone.”

“You’re in love, aren’t you,” Bergy says gently. 

It’s too big of a thing to say so easily. Holster isn’t sure how that sort of simplicity is allowed. 

He says, “Yeah.” He says, “It’ll be okay in the end.” He says, “It’s hopeless now, anyway.”

His team tries to buoy him, saying things like “you never know” and “it’s not the end until it is” and other bullshit that’s supposed to make him feel better but doesn’t. He knows they mean it; they’re good people, they wouldn’t lie to him on purpose. It still feels hollow.

____________

Holster scrolls through the  _ Ultimate Best Friend Cheat Sheet. _ It’s not the same as holding something Ransom’s written on, but it’s close.

He really could just call him. The schedule hasn’t been updated since before graduation, but he could do it. Ransom’s off at five on Thursdays.

A knock on his door. Holster jumps and slams his laptop shut as it opens.

“Birky, the boys are going—” Bergy stops short. “Am I interrupting some personal time or something, because if you’re playing five-on-one you should really leave a sock on the door.”

“I wasn’t — I was thinking about calling Rans,” Holster stammers. 

Bergy leans against the door frame. “Is this the someone?” Holster doesn’t answer, but apparently Bergy can read it on his face because he says, “Ah. So it is.”

“You’re not allowed to chirp me about this,” he says miserably. 

“I won’t.” 

There’s a pause wherein Holster pathetically spins in his office chair in order to pretend Bergy isn’t giving him the sad, sympathetic eyes.

“You should do it,” Bergy says suddenly.

“Fuck,” Holster says.

“No, really. You never know, right?” 

Holster leans back in his chair. “Look at you,” he says. “Two weeks into a casual hookup and he thinks he knows everything.”

He says it mildly. Bergy calls him a fucking asshole in the absolute fondest way. It reminds him of Shitty in a way that pierces through to his sternum. God, but he misses them. 

Bergy and some of the guys head out to get tacos. He promises to bring Holster a shitton of nachos and says, “Call them. It’ll help.”

____________

He doesn’t call. He curls up on the couch when their first preseason bye week and turns on  _ Cheers _ and  _ 30Rock _ and all of his comfort shows. Bergy joins him and makes him do jumping jacks whenever Liz drops somethings or is visibly awkward, which is all the time. When he starts on  _ Glee, _ Bergy audibly groans. 

“Holster, you gotta get your shit together,” he says. “Pick up the fucking phone.”

Holster says, “I don’t wanna get my heart smashed apart again,” and Bergy whistles.

“Something fucked you up, didn’t it.”

“It’s a timing thing.” Holster hugs a pillow tight. “It’s the same timing now as it was then, except he’s farther away.”

Bergy seems to consider this, humming, and then he throws at pillow at him.

“What the  _ fuck—” _

“Listen up,” Bergy says. Holster sits up; it’s like the full force of his captain voice hitting him at full speed. “This is clearly something that’s been weighing on you, right? Why aren’t you doing something about it?”

“It’s timing—”

“It’s really not.” Bergy stares at him. Holster wants to throw the pillow right back, so he does. It’s a lot less satisfying because Bergy catches it easily.

“What is it then,” Holster says. 

“I need you to know this is coming from a place of love and care,” Bergy tells him. 

Holster says, “Say it,” and Bergy does.

He tells him everything. How Holster’s been moping ever since his date with Charlotte. How it’s obvious that he’s playing so well because he’s got some shit to sort out. How they’re all happy Holster feels settled in with them, but they need him to know he can trust them to care about him. 

Holster listens to it all and it feels like the one time he and Lardo wrestled. Tons of tiny fists pummeling him in the stomach, over and over until he’s lying on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

“We know we’re not the guys you played with the last four years,” Bergy says at the end of his speech. “We know the transition’s rough, Holster, believe me we do. But I’ve seen this before. Dovey was like this his rookie year too, and it helped him to talk through it. I really think it’ll help you to talk with your boy about it. If you don’t catch this now it’ll massively fuck with you in the long run.”

“And I’ll play like shit,” Holster says numbly.

Bergy shrugs. “That too.” A pause. “I know some of the guys, their rookie year they flew their friends out for the home opener. That could be, you know. Maybe that’s a good start.”

Holster clears his throat. “They have tickets already, but you’re right. I could bump those seats up. Help cover the airline fees.”

“And talk to him,” Bergy says. Holster spares a second to marvel at how easily he’s using that pronoun. “Sometimes it’s better face to face.”

____________

The Phantoms’ home opener is a little less than two weeks away. Holster blows up their smaller, Class of 2015-2016 + Bitty group chat with restaurant options as if Bitty hadn’t been looking since he got signed and places to go if they wanted to check out the local art museums, as if Lardo hadn’t been looking since they bought the tickets, and aquarium hours for Ransom as if — well. He doesn’t know if Ransom’s been looking. And he still doesn’t really know what Shitty’s into aside from smoking weed, so he privately sends him a list of dispensaries near the hotel they’ll be staying at.

His friends reply enthusiastically, aside from Jack. Jack keeps sending messages like  _ knew I wasn’t the favorite anymore _ and  _ jump in the ocean for me  _ and, now and then, a classic  _ :(. _ He’s just kidding, but Holster’s already planning a series of envy-inducing photos of the five of them.

Ransom pops in now and then to hash out wardrobes, whether or not there’s an ass-shaking club nearby, if they’ll be allowed to get on the Zamboni. He doesn’t address Holster directly, which is fair enough. Holster has been leaving them high and dry pretty consistently lately. 

Holster starts singing in the shower again. The first time he sang Adele, he heard Bergy audibly sigh in relief in the kitchen. The second, third, and seventh time he’s a lot less enthusiastic about it, but his chirps still border firmly on affectionate. 

They keep winning in the preseason. They have two rough losses that they would’ve won if they’d all been able to sleep on the plane or the bus, but on the whole? Holster’s feeling pretty confident about how this season’s gonna shape up. It’ll be very different playing eighty-two games in a season, but he thinks they can handle it. It’ll be good. He’s gonna make it good.

____________

Five hours before his friends’ flights, Ransom texts him while he’s in the locker room. 

_ Can we talk? _

Holster’s pulse skyrockets immediately. Bergy and Dovey raise their eyebrows at him as he leaves the room, but he just mouths  _ tell you later. _ He walks through the tunnels until he finds that one spot in a corner where sound doesn’t bounce around the entire arena. He dials Ransom’s number by heart.

Ransom picks up immediately. “Holster?”

It’s a thing of beauty, hearing him say his name. So much tension floods out of Holster’s body. “Hey, Rans. What’d — How’re you?”

“I’m fine,” Ransom says. Holster knows him enough — even now — to know he’s faking it, but he lets him. For the moment. “I just. I wanted to call and make sure that we’re, you know. I know things have been weird between us, and I wanted to let you know I’ll do my best not to make it weird. If that makes sense?”

Holster frowns. “It’s never been weird because of you,” he says. “I think it’s been weird because I realized at the last goddamn second that I’ve been in love with you for four years.”

Ransom inhales sharply. Holster closes his eyes.

“Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”

“You mean it  _ has  _ been weird because of me,” Ransom says slowly, “or that you haven’t been in love with me?”

Holster winces. “Whichever one of those things makes you hate me less.”

“Holster, I don’t hate you.” He sounds a little exasperated now, like when he had to call the Barbie company on his sister’s behalf because they fucked up some key accessory in Barbie’s astrophysicist outfit. “I’ve never hated you. I thought you hated  _ me.” _

“Fuck no,” Holster says. He laughs incredulously. 

Ransom says “I just thought because of the kiss” at the same time Holster says “I didn’t want you to think I was pressuring you into something,” and then they both say “No you go,” and then neither of them talks. 

“Go ahead,” Holster says when it feels safe.

“I thought you hated me because I didn’t kiss you.”

And it shouldn’t be so easy to say it, but it is. “And I thought you hated me because I wanted you to kiss me. It’s not something we do.”

“It isn’t, is it.” 

Holster tells himself Ransom does  _ not _ sound like he’s considering something. “Not to my knowledge.” There’s a pause. “But you’re coming, right?”

“We’re at the airport right now,” Ransom says, and now Holster can tell he’s smiling. 

“Okay, good,” Holster says, smiling himself. “That’s solid.”

“Oh man, West Coast really got you huh? That’s ‘swawesome, you mean.”

He says, “Yeah, you got me,” and he can’t stop grinning. They talk a little about the odds of a win tonight — high — and whether Bitty’s gonna find an oven somewhere — also very high. Oh but he missed this. Ransom’s voice in his ear is even sweeter than he remembered. It feels so  _ right. _

Holster can shove down a crush for a few hours. As long as it takes to keep Ransom’s voice in his ear and their arms around each other again. He can do this.

____________

He fucking  _ can’t. _ Holster forgot what it was like to have an armful of Ransom while they were talking on the phone. His cologne alone takes Holster’s breath away, not to mention the BIRKHOLTZ Phantoms shirt, not to mention the way he lights up again when the hug starts to break and then pulls Holster back in, even closer than before.

“I fucking missed you, bro,” Ransom says.

Holster has barely enough time to say it back before Lardo demands a one-on-one hug, and then Bitty, and then Shitty, who then insists they have a group hug before leaving the airport. “Wouldn’t be fucking right not to” is his logic. It seems sound enough.

Tn the car their conversation is forced in a way Holster expected. Take three people who’ve been living together for months, add in a friend who lives close to them, and then add a guy who moved across country and hasn’t been timely in answering his phone? Of course it’s gonna be awkward at first. 

“You remember how my junior year,” Shitty says from the backseat, “we all went through that ‘toast with butter is the actual best culinary feat ever’ phase?”

Bitty almost audibly rolls his eyes. “Y’all were so much worse off before I got there. Hockey players.”

“Don’t knock it til you try it. Jack went out of his way to pick up some fine ass breads,” Lardo says. “Shit’s delicious.”

Ransom opens his mouth and Holster immediately knows what he’s about to say.

“Don’t,” he says warningly.

Ransom grins. “Hey Holtzy, wasn’t that around the time you and Esther—”

“I’ll pull over, don’t try me—”

“Holy shit,” Shitty says delightedly. “I haven’t thought about that in ages.”

Their chirps tumble over each other to the point that they’re nearly impossible to separate. Holster starts singing songs from  _ Wicked _ in an attempt to drown them out, but Lardo and Shitty keep getting louder and Bitty’s singing and Ransom’s laughing, so it’s just a mess of sound, really is what it is, and yet— 

Ransom looks at him from the passenger seat, beaming at him through the chaos, and it clears. Their friends are still being loud as hell but the sounds fade out briefly, turned away by the way Ransom’s looking at him. A single bright point of clarity. He’d forgotten how easy Rans made things. 

The truth of it is this: his friends are here, he’s playing his first on-the-books NHL game tonight, and Ransom’s looking at him like that. Like he’s seeing everything clearly, too.

____________

Holster drops them off at their hotel with the name of the driver coming to get them for dinner and the game and, after another round of hugs, he drives back to the Alley for his pregame ritual of two  _ 30Rock _ episodes and five boiled eggs. As pulls away from the hotel, Ransom waves from the front entrance. Holster smiles softly.

Bergy’s waiting at the door when he walks in. “You kiss him yet?”

“Nah,” Holster says, shaking his head. “It’s not the moment yet.”

“Gotta wait until the first game nerves settle, huh,” Bergy says.

“Something like that.”

He eats his eggs. Bergy’s slowly adapted his pregame ritual to envelope pieces of Holster’s, so he jump ropes in place as Holster does yoga while Kenneth talks about Leap Day Williams on the TV. It’s strangely soothing to have the skipping rope noise in the air during downward dog.

They have to be at the rink two hours before the game for press and other various warmups, so at five Holster pulls out his trusty navy blue game day suit and gets dressed. He’s going without a tie today so he can take his time working on his hair. A little splash of cologne. His Samwell Wellie cufflinks. He looks himself over in the mirror while he brushes his teeth, satisfied.

“You ready?” Bergy asks half an hour later, looking dapper in a classic black suit with Phantom red buttons. 

The drive to the rink should feel — more. More exciting, more special. Holster’s kind of okay that it feels like normal though. They take the same route they always do and pass the same buildings they always do, and it almost feels like being back at Samwell. Familiar. Somewhere along the line, this place became home to him without realizing.

They walk a brief red carpet before entering the arena where all the reporters clamor for Bergy to talk to them, so Holster bumps knuckles with him before continuing on his way. Near the end he spots a kid waving a Samwell banner. 

“Hey,” Holster says, walking over. “You’re a Samwell fan?”

“I wanna go there when I grow up,” she says. Holster recognizes her shirt as one of the novelty ones they sold for breast cancer awareness his sophomore year. 

Her dad says, “She’s been talking about you nonstop since she heard you signed. You’re favorite player, isn’t that right honey?”

The girl nods. Warmth spreads throughout Holster’s entire body.

“That means a lot to me,” he says. He pats his pockets. “Um, I don’t think I have a pen — do you wanna take a selfie?”

She beams at him and her dad picks her up so they don’t photograph the boundary wall, and her dad counts them down, and Holster feels so incredibly light when he snaps the photo. They say “Wellies” instead of “cheese.” Holster asks where they’re sitting and privately bets he could have someone give them a game puck. 

The girl says, “Score a goal for me!”

“I’ll do my very best,” Holster says. “Thanks for being the best fans in the world.”

____________

In the locker room, his phone buzzes with texts from his friends about the food and the buildings and the sunset and he can’t stop smiling. Keller gives them a game debrief in the form of a pep talk, but the most effective “you got this, you can do this” comes from Ransom fifteen minutes before they’re supposed to take the ice for warmups.

He sends Holster a picture of himself in the stands with his BIRKHOLTZ shirt and a giant posterboard of Holster’s baby pictures arranged around his official Phantoms photo. Lardo and Shitty are cheering in the background, holding those giant foam #1 fingers. Lardo’s making hers pick photo Holster’s nose.

The caption just says  _ good luck <3. _

He studies the photo until Bergy starts his pregame playlist and the locker room transforms, even briefly, into the world’s best nonalcoholic kegster. Dovey DJs while Kenzie and Madster perform a shitty version of a dance they saw on YouTube and Jonesy talks shit, filming them. Washer and Crash do their ritual pregame handshake. Carter discusses the pros and cons of bringing his buffalo dip onto the bench. 

Holster sits on his bench, soaking it all in. Immortalizing this moment in his bones. Across the room, Bergy nods at him. He nods back. 

____________

Holster starts the game and his friends are there to see it. He breathes this in too, the feeling of the announcer calling his name, the roar of the home crowd, the boos of the away fans. He’s looking across the ice at the Aces’ goalie and then behind, searching the stands. He’d gotten their tickets bumped up to the glass behind the net, so surely— 

He sees the poster first, then Ransom. It’s hard to tell from this far away, but he thinks Ransom is still looking at him the way he was in the car. It’s simple. He thinks, maybe, it’s an  _ I love you. _

The ref calls them in for the faceoff, and then Holster loses himself in the game. 

____________

The first period flies by and ends 0-0, but not without lack of trying from both sides. The need to make a good start on the season presses itself into every pass, every shot, every second ticking away on the clock. Jonesy’s had some amazing shots on goal, but so has Kent Parson. Kenzie’s been making some incredible saves, but so has the Aces’ goalie. Holster and Bergy have been protecting their zone and keeping the puck in play, but so have the Aces’ defensemen. It feels like any other back and forth game he’s ever played except not, because it’s the home opener in the fucking NHL, and Holster’s friends are here. His Samwell fan is here. He needs to win this.

Keller adjusts some of the lines while the Zamboni’s on the ice, and for most of the second period it works. Holster spends most of his time at the blue line of their offensive zone, passing back and forth with Bergy until Jonesy, Pipster, and Carter are open and in position for a shot on goal. 

They’re dancing around like this with two minutes left, and Parson’s skating hard at him, and no one’s open.

“Fuck it,” Holster mutters, and winds up for a slapshot. Parson’s eyes widen as the puck darts past him.

And through everyone else’s skates. 

And under the goalie’s left glove.

Holster realizes what happened seconds before Bergy slams into him, shouting, “Fuck yeah, you fucking beaut.” They both laugh a little wildly as the rest of their team piles on, rubbing Holster’s helmet and back and every inch of him they can reach. When the celly disbands, Bergy gestures for Holster to lead them in for glove taps on the bench, and he does. When he comes off the ice at the end of his shift, Keller pats him on the shoulder.

The crowd stays standing and shouting until the buzzer announces the end of the period. Holster feels like he could walk on air.

After that, the third period’s easy. The Phantoms press their advantage in the Aces’ defensive zone and keep battering their goalie until Parson takes a penalty. Jonesy scores pretty quickly after that on the power play. To the Aces’ credit, they keep battling it out until the buzzer calls the end of the game.

Their locker room is a mess of reporters and half-packed gear and they all smell like they’ve just been playing hockey, but Holster can’t stop smiling. The team’s social media manager coordinates a puck to the family Holster met outside the rink, and he signs a jersey for them. Then the manager has him pose with his first NHL puck, promising that he’ll get the photo too. He tapes the side of the puck and writes  _ First NHL goal _ and the date. 

“Hey,” Bergy calls out, “we’re going to Nick’s, right?”

The locker room reverberates with twenty-eight yeses. While everyone hashes out plans, Holster checks his phone, intending to invite his friends out but finding they’ve invited him in, citing timezone differences and poor sleep on the plane.

_ We totally understand if you’d rather go out with your team! :-) _ Bitty had sent. Ransom had emphasized it.

“I’m calling off tonight,” Holster says to the room. They boo him immediately, as he expected. “My friends are here, you douches.”

The boos turn into  _ ooo _ . “Friends like your special someone?” Dovey teases, and Holster tries and fails to stop himself from blushing. 

“Could be,” he says.

“Ooo, Birky’s in  _ love—” _

He flips them all off, laughing, and hangs up his gear before walking out of the room.

____________

Holster spends too much time showering and worrying over his clothes before reminding himself that A. he just won a hockey game, and B. he’s known these people for four years. They’ve all seen him wear worse things than sweatpants and a Phantoms t-shirt. They’ve all seen  _ Jack _ wear worse things than sweatpants and a Phantoms t-shirt. At least he doesn’t look like he’s going to rob a Burger King.

“The room has a kitchen,” Ransom says the second he opens the door. His face screams his amusement. “So guess who found an oven.”

Holster says, “Good thing we didn’t really bet on it,” and Ransom steps back to let him in. 

It’s more of a small condo than a hotel room. There’s a kitchen, small living room, and three bedrooms leading off from the living room. Bitty’s clearly already settled in; cookies and two blueberry crumble pies decorate the counter space even as Bitty’s music threads through the air. Neither he, nor Shitty, nor Lardo are anywhere to be seen. Something small like cautious optimism blooms underneath Holster’s ribs.

“Where is everyone,” he asks. 

He thinks if Ransom could blush as much as he could, Ransom’s face would be pinker than Holster’s worst sunburn. “Out,” Rans says. “They’re asleep, or working on it.”

The sprig of optimism blooms larger. 

“Oh,” Holster says. Then: “Is it — do you mind that we’re the only ones here?”

“Do you mind?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted to talk to you about some things, I guess. We talked about it on the phone, but—”

“In person is always better,” Ransom says, reading his mind like always.

“Yeah.” 

There’s a moment where they look at each other. For a brief, wild moment, Holster thinks about just kissing him and showing him what he wants to say that way, to find out how soft his lips actually are. To give in to the spur of the moment. He still knows Ransom well enough to know that that’s not what needs to happen right now.

He cuts them both a slice of pie while they talk about how different Oregon weather is from Massachusetts and Ransom catches him up on his work friend Cheryl’s drama — “Her son’s baby mama just told him he’s not the father, but her son  _ is _ the father of the baby mama’s best friend’s baby, so it’s all a mess.” — and he tells him about Bergy and Jenna, and how Carter’s obsessed with buffalo dip but Holster’s is widely acknowledged to be better, and Ransom touches his shoulder while he’s laughing.

It shouldn’t be a thing. Ransom’s touched his shoulder loads of times over the last four years; Holster should be used to the feeling of his hands on him. It sparks every nerve in his whole body.

He says, “Justin, I’m still in love with you.”

Holster said it without thinking. He sees the instant it breaks against Ransom’s face, but Ransom’s eyes soften instead of growing hard. It makes it easier to keep breathing.

“I know,” Ransom says. He takes a deep breath. “Holtzy, I don’t—”

It’s like his heart’s fallen out of his chest. “I didn’t think you would,” Holster starts to say, but Ransom’s still talking.

“—want to pretend this wouldn’t be hard,” Ransom says, then frowns. “Wait, what?”

Now it feels like Holster’s been hit with a frying pan. He says, “No, you go.”

Ransom clears his throat. “I was gonna say, I’m — Adam, I’m all in. If you’re serious, then — I am too, I’ve been in love with you since that one morning you woke us all up by singing ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade,’ remember? After the attic leaked that one time sophomore year?”

“It’s been that long,” Holster says softly. Ransom shrugs helplessly. Holster’s heart slowly, steadily crawls back into his chest. 

Rans says, “You remember our perfect day?” Holster nods. As if he could forget. “That was supposed to be a date. Not officially, but. If we’d been together like that, I wanted that to be our last date at Samwell.”

“But you didn’t want,” Holster says. “I thought—”

“You were leaving.” Ransom looks at his pie. Holster reaches across the table for his hand, and after a breath Ransom takes it. “It would’ve killed me to have you for that one moment and then watch you get on a plane the next day.”

Holster plays with his fingers. “But now you’re leaving tomorrow,” he says. “So what do we do about that?”

“I don’t know,” Rans says softly. “I really, really don’t. But I’m willing to not know with you, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course I will,” Holster says in a whisper. It’s almost too much to say these things. Simple and easy and still too much. 

The conversation fades out after that, but it’s comfortable. They eat their pie. For the first time Holster’s allowed to just  _ look _ at him like this, both of them tired and sore, probably, but sneaking pieces of Bitty’s baked goods just like when they were back at the Haus. The light is a little less honey and a lot more cool, there isn’t a cupboard full of Tabasco sauce nearby, but it’s still Ransom. It’s still them. 

A few minutes later he realizes Ransom’s laughing slightly into his pie. “What?” Holster says, smiling despite himself.

“I don’t even know,” Ransom says, and now Holster starts too. “We’re a mess, Holtzy.”

“A good one hopefully.”

Ransom says, “Oh, obviously,” and Holster relaxes. “I just never thought this is where we’d end up.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to realize,” Holster says. 

“I’m not.” Ransom stands to clear his plate. “It wasn’t our moment before. Now it is.”

Holster rinses his plate off next to him, and their shoulders are touching, and he wants to kiss him. Ransom bites his lip as if he knows what he’s thinking.

“Holster,” he says softly, and he turns to face him. Holster trails his fingertips up Ransom’s sides as Rans cups Holster’s face in both hands. He smooths his thumb over Holster’s bottom lip before he kisses him.

It doesn’t set fireworks up and down Holster’s spine. It doesn’t feel like the world dropped out from under him, and it doesn’t make him feel like he needs to sit down before he falls down. It’s better than that.

It feels  _ right. _ Comfortable. It doesn’t shake up his world because the world already decided this was going to happen for them. It feels like coming home after a long, long trip away. It feels like scoring in his first real NHL game. It tastes like blueberries.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” Rans whispers back. 

Holster loops his hands around Ransom’s waist. “I’m in love with you,” he says, because he can. Because he knows Rans is gonna say it back.

“I know,” Rans says, smiling, and he kisses him again.

____________

They talk it out in whispers that night as they flit around each other, easily absorbed into the other’s orbit. A kiss to Ransom’s shoulders. Ransom’s hand playing with the hem of Holster’s t-shirt. Holster still kind of can’t believe he gets to touch him like this. The look on Ransom’s face says he can’t believe it either.

In bed, Ransom says, “I was thinking about staying a few more days,” and Holster props himself up on an elbow.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says. “They don’t need me back until Thursday really.”

“That’d be great,” Holster says, kissing Rans’ knuckles. “Bergy and Dovey, and the rest of the boys, they’ve been wanting to meet you. If you’re up for it.”

“That’d be fun,” Ransom says through a yawn.

They talk about plane tickets and bye weeks and required corporate meetings. They talk, yawning, about how much shelf and drawer space they have free to save on flight costs. They say  _ I love you. _

In the morning, their friends will whoop and chirp them and Holster will kiss him just because he can. In the morning, they’ll have to refine a call schedule if they actually want this to work. In the morning, Holster will take him to brunch.

For now they just hold each other and breathe in the fact that they’re here, together, at the right time. This is their moment. 

Holster falls asleep with his arms around Ransom. He wakes up to a kiss from the love of his life.

________________________

**Author's Note:**

> Oh gosh, thanks for reading this!! this is something I've had in the works for awhile, but with the recent Everything that's been happening I needed a distraction. So I hope this was a good distraction for you too, and pls stay safe! <3
> 
> Title & chapter names come from ["A Little More"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WqxYyUR72jU) by Alessia Cara 
> 
> Come scream with me about this in the comments below or [come find me on tumblr! :)](https://ivecarvedawoodenheart.tumblr.com/)


End file.
